It’s just boring with you, Victor said, his voice flat as a library aisle. And anyway, Ive fallen for someone elseEmma.
Emma stared at him, her breath caught in her throat. It felt as though the taut string inside her chest had snapped. Three years togetherthree years of hopes, plans, endless talks about a futurewere reduced to two short sentences that shattered everything.
Boring? Emma repeated, trying to grasp the word. It wasnt boring for three years, and now suddenly?
It doesnt matter, Emma, Victor replied without even looking up, folding his shirts into a bag. It just happened. It happens. Were not the first, we wont be the last.
Emma wanted to scream, to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. She could only watch, silent, as the man she loved methodically erased the traces of their shared life.
After he left, the rented flat in Shoreditch seemed vast and empty. The walls pressed in, the air grew thick. Emma collapsed onto the sofa and wept, but the tears brought no relief. At night she woke reaching for the vacant side of the bed; by day she went through the motions of work without truly engaging.
The neighbours next door lived their own liveslaughing, shouting, the television blaring. Their voices seeped through the thin walls, a reminder that somewhere a normal life continued, full and real. All Emma had left were memories and an empty flat.
All she yearned for was simple: love, a home where someone waited, a place where she could be herself without pretending to be strong. She dreamed of a place that would accept hertired, bewildered, craving just a touch of human warmth.
A year after the breakup she met him.
It happened in a café opposite her office. Emma rushed in for a midday coffee. At a window table sat a man, face grey from fatigue, eyes dim. Their gazes met for a heartbeat, and Emma saw in him the same hollow emptiness she felt.
That day she met Oliver. Thirtyeight, freshly divorced, no children. He lived in a twobedroom flat where everything shouted that the owner had long given up: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He didnt look angrymore like a lemon squeezed dry.
Divorced three years ago, Oliver said on their third date, stirring his coffee mechanically. Since then Ive been getting by. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even gets comfortableno one nagging, nothing demanding, no expectations.
Emma listened, recognising her own pain, now crusted over with indifference.
Slowly she slipped into his world, first cautiously, then deeper. At first they simply met up: cinema trips, park strolls, coffee shop hangs. Oliver was sparing with words, but Emma liked that after Victors endless chatter. His silence held its own charmno need to fill gaps with empty talk.
Your flat feels empty, Emma remarked one day, looking around his place.
Got used to it, Oliver shrugged. Why fix what isnt broken?
But Emma saw something else: a man who had forgotten how to care for himself, who existed rather than truly lived.
Six months after they met, Emma moved in with Oliver. She brought only the essentials at first, then gradually transformed the flat. She rearranged furniture to let more light in, bought fresh bedding, replaced cracked mugs and plates, placed potted flowers on the windowsill, hung light curtains that let the sun spill in. The apartment filled with the scent of homecooked meals and fresh air. The place came alive, grew warm.
Why are you doing all this? Oliver asked one evening as Emma hung newlylaundered curtains.
I want it to feel good for you to come home, she replied simply. He fell silent.
Unaware of the change, Oliver grew accustomed to her care. He liked returning to a clean, fragrant flat, to a table set with dinner, to a fresh, soft bed. Emma wove a cocoon of comfort around him, a space where he could relax and forget everything else.
For two years Emma tended to Olivercooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he liked his sauce sweeter or spicier, creating warmth in every detail, from the aroma of morning coffee to a soft blanket on the sofa. She surrounded him with love, asking nothing in return.
She postponed any talk of the future, fearing to disturb their fragile balance. Each time the question Whats next? rose in her mind, she held back. Its too early, she told herself. Let him settle, let him see how good it feels together.
Then, one rainy afternoon, she finally asked. Oliver sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a new cup shed bought the week before. The rain drummed against the window, but the flat was warm and snug.
Oliver, when are we getting married?
Oliver looked up, his eyes hollow. He shook his head.
Marry? Im not looking to tie the knot again. Im not that foolish.
Emmas world froze. The kitchen turned cold, the cups, the curtains, the flowers on the sillall seemed like set pieces in someone elses play. All the warmth, all the hope, crumbled in an instant.
But why then? she stammered. Why did I do all this? Two years, Oliver! Two years I wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together.
Oliver set the cup down.
I never asked for this. You started it yourself. I was fine as I was.
Emma stared, disbelief cracking her voice. The man shed tried so hard for, the man whose flat shed turned from a shell into a home, simply didnt understandor didnt want to.
Fine? You were fine living in dust and grime? With halfcooked meals? Sleeping on threadbare sheets?
Yeah, not perfect but livable, Oliver replied as if commenting on the weather. Emma, I do appreciate everything you do, truly. But I never promised marriage. After the divorce I swore off it. A stamp in a passport doesnt change anything.
It changes everything to me, Emma whispered. It means were a family, that we have a future, that Im not just a convenient woman.
Oliver tried to protest, Youve got it all wrong.
But Emma was already up, moving toward the bedroom, gathering her belongings. Oliver watched in silence, offering no plea to stay.
You know you have nowhere to go, he said finally. Its late, its raining.
Ill figure something out, she replied curtly, zipping her suitcase.
She passed him, reached the front door, paused in the hallway, and looked back at the flat for the last time. There was no longer a place for her love here.
The door shut softly behind her. She walked down the rainslicked street, the emptiness in her chest echoing each step. One thought looped endlessly: I only wanted him to be happy
Emma checked into a modest B&B, sank onto the edge of the bed, and finally let the tears flow, long enough to drain her spirit.
When the ache faded, she realised her mistake wasnt loving; it was giving everything without waiting for him to meet her halfway. She had built a family where her efforts were taken for granted, gifting warmth to someone who never asked for it. She wanted to be needed, but became merely convenient. She poured her soul into a man who treated it as a free extra in his orderly life.
Now Emma knew love isnt bought with caretaking. You cant win affection through cleaning, cooking, or endless attention.
And if another man ever appears, she wont rush to change his pillows or polish his plates. Shell watch his actions, his intentions, whether he steps toward her as she does toward him. If he does, together theyll create a home where no one has to earn the right to stand beside the other.
